


Free Fallin'

by talkingismylife



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Accidents, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, F/F, M/M, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Mistakes Are Made, Misunderstandings, Relationship Problems, Sex Fail, Shower Sex, So bad, no like they fail fail at sex, roger and john are v dumb and they fail at sex, rum raisin ice cream is the real villain of this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29601939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingismylife/pseuds/talkingismylife
Summary: He was right on the brink of orgasm when it happened.John gave a particularly sharp thrust, hitting the right spot inside of Roger, and unfortunately sending him over balanced. Roger’s foot lost purchase, sliding through a patch of soap suds and forcing him forward.With a rather dull thwack, he smacked his forehead straight into the tile before immediately crumpling to the ground, one hand outstretched in a pathetic attempt to stop himself from hitting himself further. It didn’t work. His head bounced off the shower handle, momentarily blinding him from the pain.Above him, John let out a strangled yelp as Roger crumpled into a heap on the bottom of the shower, pinching his wrist between his chest and the shower floor, sending another starburst of pain through his body.For a moment, Roger laid there on the floor, certain that this was it; he was dead.(wherein john and roger fail at sex. there are feelings and angst and so much stupidity involved that it's not even funny. but mainly, they fail at sex.)
Relationships: Dominique Beyrand/Veronica Tetzlaff, Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Free Fallin'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devereauxing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devereauxing/gifts).



> this fic is a lovingly produced work of fiction for my one and only lo (devereauxing) on the anniversary of her birth. welcome to the old bitches club, we meet on wednesdays. 
> 
> (title from _free fallin'_ by tom petty)

It all began with a shower. 

To be honest, this wasn’t just any old shower. No, this was a state of the art, brand new, double headed shower that had a special notch in the handle so that each time you’d turn the water on it would automatically produce the same temperature of water. It was decadent and beautiful and the most relaxing thing Roger had ever experienced.

Too bad it wasn’t his. 

No, it was John's, born from the slight crisis he’d had after he and Veronica had amicably split following their own revelations they were not, in fact, one hundred percent straight. Veronica had nursed her slightly broken heart in the arms of Dominique, Roger’s ex-girlfriend, while John had decided to face this revelation in the form of completely gutting his master bathroom and rebuilding it better. 

Roger had watched, bottle of beer in hand, as John had retiled the floor, admiring the view nicely from his perch on the bathroom sink—newly redone with real Italian marble and copper fixtures. The whole thing, born of misery and heartbreak, turned out better than anyone had expected, including John himself. 

John would never admit it, of course, but it hadn’t really been his intention to remodel his bathroom. He’d merely— in a state of anger over the realization that he was going to have to start dating _again_ after six years of committed relationship— thrown himself a massive wobble and decided in a drunken haze that the bathroom had to go. 

He’d woken up in the bathtub to find that he’d somehow managed to find a sledgehammer and gone to town on the whole room.

Hence, remodelling. 

It was all nice and neat and so damn perfect, that Roger couldn’t help but wish that it was _his_ bathroom. Unlike his own, which was too small and never had enough hot water, John’s was perfect in every way. 

Well, almost. 

John groaned, mouthing at Roger’s shoulder from behind, forcing his own echoing moan out of the deep expanse of his chest. Honestly, Roger probably had better things to think about than the state of John’s bathroom, if the force of John’s thrusts were anything to go by. 

In his defense, their relationship was new _ish_ , built on a shaky foundation of drunken debauchery and minor heartbreak. There wasn’t a term for what they were doing other than “friends with benefits” or “hey-come-over-to-watch-the-footy-game-and-drink-my-beer-oops-is-that-my-hand-down-your-pants-or-are-you-just-happy-to-see-me?”. Roger wasn’t complaining, afterall, it had been him who’d tried to make light of the situation the morning after their first hook up, brushing John’s panic off as nothing. What was a drunken romp in the sheets between two friends, anyways? 

And sure, it had hurt, rolling over in bed, still slightly sore in the best possible way after a night of pleasure to find John staring blankly up at the ceiling, eyes wide and unwilling to even look at Roger. Roger, who’d assumed (like an _ass_ ) they’d been on the same page and finally made a move on the heavy gazes and lingering touches that had been going on from the moment they’d met. Roger, who thought that when John had kissed him mid-argument over whether or not ‘atemoya’ was an acceptable Scrabble word, they were finally putting an end to the decade-long pining he’d been suffering from. 

Instead, he stretched, crawled from the bed, and assured John over his shoulder that things didn’t have to change now that they’d had sex. If anything, he assured him, it made it easier: keep it in the friendship, so to speak. No strings attached, and all that jazz. 

That was the first morning he got to use The Shower, but wasn’t the last. 

After that first ~~mind melting amazing fantastic orgasmic~~ _ordinary_ hookup, Roger had found solace in John’s shower. He could forget all about his inevitable heartbreak among the steam vents John had installed, and wash the feel of John’s hands on his hips, tongue in his mouth, fingers on his cock off his body with the real sea sponge loofah John had purchased just for the shower. It was hard to be heart broken when you were showering in heaven, and, well, Roger was a creature of comfort. 

But, like all good things, the sanctity of the shower had to end eventually. 

It had been a spectacular night full of fun, fun that had stretched into the late morning. Roger had for the first time in their entire not-relationship woken up before John. While a normal couple might make the other a cup of coffee or breakfast to be enjoyed in bed, Roger had gone in a completely different direction, choosing instead to wake John up with a rather spectacular blowjob, if he said so himself. 

There were few things in life better than watching John slowly twitch awake to the feeling of his cock in Roger’s mouth, fingers tugging at his balls. He was always slow to wake, face twisting in soft ecstasy that smoothed into something inexplicably gentle as his lashes fluttered open. Roger grinned around the mouthful as John’s eyes opened, blinking away sleep down at him. 

“Oh, god,” John moaned, tossing his head back as one hand buried itself in Roger’s hair, the other coming to fall across his eyes, almost as though he couldn’t bear to watch.

Roger pulled off slowly, pressing a sweet kiss to the head of John’s lovely cock. 

“Y’can just call me Roger,” he said, cheeky. John tugged at his hair in reproach, drawing a long groan from him. 

In retaliation, Roger licked down to the base of cock, suckling on the skin just above his balls, smiling to himself when John’s leg’s kicked out, toes curling against Roger’s hips. 

_That’s it_ , he thought to himself, giving John a quick pump of his hand. Finding his rhythm, he continued the same devastatingly slow pace, alternating between sloppy kisses and deep, powerful sucks. Above him, John mewled and thrashed, chest hitching and jaw clenching. 

It didn’t take much longer before John was pulling at his hair, doing his best to pull Roger off of him before the, ahem, lift off. 

“Rog,” John panted, voice cracking. “Rog, Rog—” 

Roger hummed, sucking him down further. Above him, John squeaked, twitched, and came. 

Sated, exhausted, and flushed the most gorgeous shade of pink, John didn’t even move as Roger rolled off his hips, gracelessly stumbling to his feet and making his way to the bathroom. Unable to even look himself in the eye, he turned his back to the mirror as he turned on the shower, scratching at his belly as he waited and watched the already hot water fall from the shower head. 

God, who did he have to blow to get one of these for his own? He snorted, cutting a glance back at the bed where John was still lying, motionless. Well, maybe a few more. Roger was nothing if not persistent. 

When the shower was properly steamed, he climbed inside, immediately ducking under the water and letting it sluice over his body, warming him from the inside out. The pressure was exquisite, just what he needed to wake him up properly, washing the last trace of sleep from the corner of his mind. 

However, there was still something rather aching. Mindlessly, he dropped his hand down to his own cock, groaning under his breath as he started a slow steady pace. 

“Can’t ever wait, can you?” John drawled, voice echoing in the bathroom. Roger turned slowly, taking his time as he watched John drag his eyes up and down the length of him, settling at his waist, watching his hand move slowly over his dick. 

“You gonna do something about it?” he asked, far more casually than he felt. 

It wasn’t just the steam and the water making him flush; here, pinned under John’s gaze, Roger felt his most beautiful, and, his most vulnerable. There was nowhere else he’d rather be than exposed before John, on display and open. _Take me_ , he wanted to demand. _Keep me_. 

He’d stay like this forever, if John would have him, naked and willing and ready for him. If John would ask, Roger would give without second thought. If only he’d asked. 

John stalked towards the shower, never once letting his gaze stray from Roger, who cocked a hip, welcoming him in. 

“You left before I could return the favor,” John said, raising his voice to be heard under the thunder of the water. Roger gasped, back arching as John’s hand dropped to join his own, fingers strong and calloused in the best possible way. 

“Wanted a shower,” Roger admitted, head falling back under the spray, toes curling on John’s upstroke, his hands falling to grasp at his biceps, holding on for dear life. “You know me, I only come here for the shower.” 

In lieu of response, John dropped his head to the nape of Roger’s neck, biting down on the tendon and sending sparks up and down his spine. Roger let himself get pushed up against the tile, shivering at the temperature change between the freezing tile and burning water. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed by the pleasure and the cold, his mind dizzy from the steam. 

John said something that was lost to the fall of water, his hands heavy on Roger’s hips as he turned him around, forehead against the tile and fingers scrabbling for purchase. 

“Yes,” moaned Roger as he felt his finger prod between his cheeks. “John—” 

“Be good,” John hissed in his ear, nosing the hair off his shoulder. “Be good, and I’ll give it to you.” 

Oh _fuck_. Heat washed over Roger; if he wasn’t careful it’d be over before he had a chance to be good. One finger turned to two, then three, each one more delicious than the last. Roger felt frozen against the tile, mouth open and panting as he struggled to maintain his balance amidst the water. He was _this close_ to begging John for more when he pulled away, hands leaving Roger’s hips. 

_Yes_ , Roger thought dreamily, ready for more than just fingers. But more never came. 

“Ooh,” shuddered Roger as John began rubbing shampoo into his hair. “What— _yes_.” 

John chuckled, adding more shampoo, fingers firm against the curve of his skull. “Since you love my shower so much.” 

“If you stop,” Roger warned, eyes closed against any suds. “I’ll drown you.” 

Gently, far too gently, John maneuvered Roger’s head back under the spray, one hand carefully covering his eyes to prevent the shampoo from running down into his eyes. It was so gentle for a moment Roger thought he might cry, his heart skipping two extra beats at the tenderness. 

“Conditioner?” John asked, running his fingers through Roger’s hair to make sure that all of it had washed out. 

“Stop teasing me,” Roger cracked one eye open to glare at him. “Finish what you started.” 

John smirked, knowing exactly what he was doing to him. 

It was a new form of torture, being treated so gently as John methodically massaged conditioner into his hair, taking extra care to sweep his fingers over the back of his neck where he knew Roger was sensitive. He might be a bastard, but he was Roger’s bastard for as long as he’d let him stay. 

“If you don’t fuck me,” Roger panted, completely overstimulated from the generous touches and hot water. He felt like he would melt, like he would shake apart and die, like everything he knew was bursting at the edge of his seams so long as John kept touching him. He couldn’t even finish his threat.

“You’re so spoiled,” John whispered in his ear as he ran his fingers down his back to tease at his rim once more. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“ _Fuck_ me,” Roger half begged. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was scrambling at the tiles, at John, at anything at all that would give him what he wanted— what he _needed_. “Deaks—” 

“ _Shh_ ,” whispered John, petting at his flanks in an attempt to soothe him. “I’ll give you what you want.” 

If it were anyone else or anywhere else, Roger would have burst into laughter and declared the mood dead after hearing such a pathetic porno line. But for some reason his brain switched off when his cock turned on, and he found himself panting in desperation. Later, he’d think it was pathetic. Now, all he wanted was whatever John would give him. 

Maybe it was the way he looked or the fact that he was all but humping at the tiles, but either way John decided to take pity on his soul. Quickly turned around with hands on his hips, John didn’t hesitate before sliding all the way in, pressing the entirety of his front against Roger’s back. Giving him barely even a moment to adapt, John took off at a bruising pace, sending shockwaves and licks of fire up and down Roger’s spine.

It was everything he needed and then more. 

Roger ducked his head, bracing himself against the wall as John pounded into him from behind, his hands hot on the curve of his hip and under one thigh, holding him in place. Gritting his teeth, he tried to hold out for all he was worth, tried to hold onto _some_ semblance of control as John tried his best to strip him of it. 

He was right on the brink of orgasm when it happened. 

John gave a particularly sharp thrust, hitting the right spot inside of Roger, and unfortunately sending him over balanced. Roger’s foot lost purchase, sliding through a patch of soap suds and forcing him forward. 

With a rather dull _thwack_ , he smacked his forehead straight into the tile before immediately crumpling to the ground, one hand outstretched in a pathetic attempt to stop himself from hitting himself further. It didn’t work. His head bounced off the shower handle, momentarily blinding him from the pain. 

Above him, John let out a strangled yelp as Roger crumpled into a heap on the bottom of the shower, pinching his wrist between his chest and the shower floor, sending another starburst of pain through his body. 

For a moment, Roger laid there on the floor, certain that this was it; he was dead. 

Dazed, all he could hear was the crescendo of the water mixed with some sort of pathetic whimpering noise. It took him a second to realize the whimpering was coming from him. 

“Ow,” he said, pathetic. He tried to roll over, doing his best to free his wrist from underneath him. 

“Oh my god,” John grunted from above, sounding exactly as panicked as Roger felt. “Oh, Christ.” 

“Ow,” Roger repeated, keeping his eyes squeezed tight. If he didn’t look, if he didn’t open his eyes, then he was just asleep, having the world’s most terrible nightmare. Opening his eyes would make this a reality, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face that just yet. 

To be completely honest, Roger was rather hoping that he was going to be dead in the next minute or two, anyways. Death would be better than the humiliation of getting dropped in the shower and quite literally falling off your not-boyfriend’s dick. 

“Fuck! Fuck,” John swore, opening the shower door and all but fleeing from the shower. 

He let all the steam out in his wake; Roger didn’t know which was sadder. 

Without even sitting up, he reached for the tap and slowly turned it off, stopping the water. In the now-opposingly silent bathroom, Roger had never felt more pathetic. Carefully he rose into a sitting position, cracking open one eye enough to see where he was going as he crawled on his knees towards the sink. Had John still been there, he would have thrown a little bitch fit over puddles on the tile, and how they were bad for the grout. 

But John had left Roger alone, and he could deal with the warping. Roger had bigger issues to deal with, beginning with discovering whether or not he still had an eye. 

Using his one good hand, he hoisted himself back up onto his feet, squinting into the mirror at the terrifyingly large knot that was already forming over his eyebrow, swelling a rather ugly shade of red. He prodded at it carelessly, hissing at the radiating pain. It hurt to even open his eye, and he squeezed it shut. 

“This sucks,” Roger muttered, reaching up to cover his eyebrow, wincing the whole while. “This is literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

It was as though his whole body hurt— his head, his face, his arse, his wrist, even his goddamn pride. John still hadn’t returned. In revenge, Roger grabbed at the stupidly fluffy towels he’d bought to decorate the bathroom and half heartedly began drying himself off as best he could with one hand. 

When he was no longer dripping, he threw the towel in the general vicinity of the shower, refusing to look at himself in the mirror as he staggered, still half blind, back into the bedroom. Only thirty minutes prior, Roger had been laying between John’s legs. Now, he was hurting, ashamed, and bare ass naked. His trousers were crumpled in front of the dresser, his pants tangled in the sheets. His shirt, though, was gone. 

The night before, John had all but ripped his shirt off his back, throwing it god knows where. At the time, it had been sexy and hot, feeling so wanted that John couldn’t stop himself from waiting the thirty seconds it would take for him to disrobe. Now, Roger wanted to find John— wherever he’d gone to hide— and smack him. Giving up on finding it, he yanked open John’s drawer and grabbed the first shirt he could find, tugging it on over his head. 

After that, it was only a quick walk down the hall and towards the stairs, the whole time half stumbling as he went. He kept one hand on the railing the whole while as the very last thing he wanted was to take a tumble down the stairs and break himself further. 

He was halfway down when he caught sight of John, staring up at him from the bottom of the staircase in something akin to horror, a carton of ice cream in his hands. 

“Your eye!” John exclaimed, staring at him. 

“Cheers,” Roger snarled, flushing under the unwanted attention. He could count on one hand how many other terrible situations he’d rather be in than standing, dripping water, bruised pride, and humiliated in front of John. Who still was holding a carton of ice cream. Shouldering his last remaining dignity, he made his way back down the stairs, doing his best to keep his head up. It was only twenty or so steps to the coat rack, and five more from there to the door. 

“Wait, where are you going?” John asked from behind him, confusion muddling his voice. 

“Home,” Roger said, short. He was going to go home, crawl into bed, lick his wounds, and lay in bed until god granted him the serenity to die. 

Death was better than remembering _this_ sad sack of horseshit. Without a second glance, he slammed the door shut behind him, satisfied by the sound of the windows rattling. 

*

It took Roger longer than usual to make his way home. With his wrist slowly but steadily swelling, matching the goose egg over his right eye, Roger had difficulty handling the stick shift. Usually, it would take him under five minutes to get home; this time it took him an unprecedented fifteen. 

By the time he reached his driveway, he was even more sore than when he started and craved the security of his bed. Stumbling through the front door, he made a beeline first to his kitchen, grabbing a bag of frozen peas that someone— most likely Brian— had left, slapping it to his face with his hurt wrist. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed a slice of bread, shoving the whole thing in his mouth in one fell swoop before making his way into his bedroom. 

Climbing under the covers, he stretched out onto his back, ignoring the fact that his hair was still wet from the terrible, horrible, disastrous shower. His face was slowly numbing under the ice; a trickle of water made its way down the side of his face and dripped straight into his ear. 

“As if it couldn’t get worse,” he sighed, broken. 

Next to him, the phone rang, forcing another deep sigh out of him. Blind, he flopped his hand in the general direction, tugging it off the cradle and shoving it in the general vicinity of his ear. 

“What,” he grunted. 

“ _Erm, hi,_ ” said John. “ _Just wanted to make sure you made it home—_ ” 

Roger hung up the phone. On second thought, he knocked it completely off the cradle before rolling over and forcing himself to go to sleep. 

He woke up three hours later, his head and wrist throbbing, pillow soaked with not-so-frozen pea water. Groaning, he rolled over, squinting at the clock on his bedside table. He was definitely late for the studio. Grabbing the phone he slapped it back on the cradle, listening to the dial tone. Closing his eyes, he dialed the studio, flopping onto his back once again. 

Mack’s assistant made the misfortune of being the one to pick up, flustered as he stammered his way through his greeting, repeating Roger’s message twice before Roger lost his patience and hung up on him as well. 

With nothing else to do, he again fell back asleep, hoping to wake up and discover it was all a dream. 

*

It wasn’t a dream. 

Roger woke up starving. Sleep drunk, he headed into the kitchen and pulled out the ingredients for egg in a hole. His skills in the kitchen might be lacking, but he at least knew how to fry an egg. At least, he thought he did before he managed to mangle the whole damn thing, breaking the yoke and ripping the bread when he attempted to flip it. 

“Fuck this,” he snarled, chucking the ruined egg into the bin. After a few strategic deep breaths, Roger tried again. Fortunately for him, and the frying pan, he managed to make it perfectly. Not even bothering with a plate, he ate it fresh out of the pan, scarfing it down in six bites, ignorant to the heat. A burned tongue was the least of his injuries. 

Washing the egg down with orange juice straight from the carton, Roger fetched another bag of peas from the freezer, this time strapping it to his wrist. With another slice of bread in hand— this time slathered with lemon curd— Roger made his way to his living room, flopping down onto the couch and slapping at the remote until the telly turned on. 

Despite the sitcom playing in the background, Roger couldn’t stop thinking of what happened. 

It was humiliating, the whole of it. He’d been such an idiot, not just in falling over, but actually expecting that John would care for him. He couldn’t shake the image of him sprawled out indignantly on the bathroom floor, John running away from him, out of his head. 

He knew that they weren’t dating, but he’d expected some sort of comfort after nearly dying in the shower. He could have lost an eye, for god’s sake, that had to warrant some sort of comforting, surely. 

He groaned, flopping an arm over his face, completely forgetting the knot on his face and the bag of peas strapped to his wrist. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” he bellowed at the impending burst of pain. “Mother _fucker_!” 

It really wasn’t his day.

*

He couldn’t hide at home all day, no matter how much he wanted to. He had appearances to make and things to do, there was only so long that he could spend wallowing in his own self pity and half frozen pea juice. He had to man up, put on some sunglasses, and face the firing squad. He could do this, he was Roger Fucking Taylor and he was a man, goddamnit. He could go to the studio and pretend everything was fine. 

He just forgot about the fact that all three of his bandmates were wankers of the highest class.

“Jesus wept, Roger, where the fuck have you been?” Brian exclaimed the second Roger walked in. “You didn’t show, you didn’t call—” 

“I called,” growled Roger, throwing himself onto one of the couches and stealing the cigarette out of Phoebe’s hand. “Not my fault no one passed along the message.” 

“Two days! Two bloody days! What were you thinking?” 

“I was thinking that I didn’t want to come in,” Roger said, sullen. “Who are you, my bloody father? Fuck off.” 

“Don’t be such a bitch,” Freddie called from the other half of the room. “Listen to your father when he’s speaking to you.” 

In a fit of fury, Roger forgot completely about his swollen wrist and his goal to hide his injuries as long as possible. He flipped Freddie off with his bad hand, shooting a shock wave of pain all the way down to his elbow. Hissing, he brought his wrist to his chest without thought, cradling it tightly. 

“What was that,” Brain frowned, getting up and waking closer. “Did you hurt yourself? Are you injured?” 

“It’s nothing!” 

“Doesn’t look like nothing! Fred, come take a look, his wrist, it’s all purple!” 

Roger kicked his leg out, doing his best to keep them from looking at his bruised wrist. “Fuck off, I said it’s fine!” 

From behind Brian, Freddie let out a curse. “Ooh, darling, you poor thing! Look at your wrist, it looks awful! What did you do to yourself?” 

Across the room John let out a sad sort of noise. Roger flinched at the sound— he hadn’t even noticed John was there. Shit.

“It’s nothing,” Roger ground out through gritted teeth. Brian reached out to touch his arm and Roger slapped at his hand, glaring at him from underneath his glasses. “Stop it! Leave me alone!” 

“Have you been to the doctor? What if it’s broken?” 

“Oh my _god_ he’s broken his wrist! It’s broken! We’re going to have to push back recording, he’s going to need _surgery_! You look awful in white, darling, it washes you out completely and now you’ll need to wear a _cast!_ ” 

“It’s not broken!” 

“Phoebe! Call 999, he needs to be seen at once! We can’t let it wait, what if they have to _cut off his hand?_ ” 

“What even happened?” Brian demanded to know over Freddie’s wailing. “How did this happen?”

“Freddie,” said Phoebe placatingly. “They’re not going to cut off Roger’s hand. It just looks like a bad sprain. He wouldn’t be able to move it if it were broken.” 

“He’s going to be a cripple!” Freddie moaned, covering his face with his hand. “My poor darling, without a hand, unable to drum! What are we going to do?” 

“IT’S NOT BROKEN AND THEY’RE NOT GOING TO CUT OFF MY HAND JUST BECAUSE I FELL!” Roger roared, leaping to his feet in fury. He stormed towards the door, furious at himself and his friends for their over the top reaction to a little sprain. 

“Roger, c’mon, don’t be like this,” Brian whined, getting up and grabbing him by the shirt to redirect him back to the couch. “We’re just worried about you.” 

From his perch in the corner, doing his best to blend in with the wallpaper, John cleared his throat. “Yeah, erm. Are you? Alright?” 

On principle, Roger ignored him. 

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t want to hear another fucking word about my arm or my face or I swear to god—” 

“What happened to your face?” 

One look at Brian’s glare had all of his anger puff out of him like a popped balloon. Closing his eyes and praying for patience, he grabbed at the sunglasses on his face and removed them to a horrified round of gasps. 

Freddie sounded on the verge of tears; “Roger, darling, you’re _disfigured_!” 

“Freddie!” John yelped from the corner. 

“No, it’s true!” Bounding off the couch, Freddie cornered Roger against the wall and took his face in his own cold, yet gentle, hands. Freddie moaned at the sight of him, twisting his face this way and that under the light. “Darling, how? Why? Why would you do this to your face? You’re one good feature?” 

“ _Hey_.” 

“No, darling, it’s horrible!” Roger suddenly found himself pulled in against Freddie’s chest, his hair being pet like a cat. “Look at him! What are we going to do?” 

“It’s going to heal,” John assured him from the corner, still looking like a kicked dog. “You’ll look fine in a week.” 

“A week! A whole week of looking like a horrid monster with a black eye! Ooh _Roger!_ ” 

Roger decided then and there that he needed new friends. He was going to quit the band— was Genesis still looking for a drummer? He was much better than Phil Collins— and leave the whole set of wankers behind. Why he even bothered to come in when he was met with nothing but abuse, Roger didn’t know. He had much better things to do than to sit there and be insulted over a harmless accident, and he said as much.

Unfortunately, Roger could barely see due to his face being smashed against Freddie’s horrible shirt, otherwise he would have staged a much larger protest at the sight of John coming to his rescue. “Fred, c’mon, leave him alone.”

“Too little too late,” muttered Roger.

“What was that, darling?” 

“I said, leave me alone!” Roger growled. Despite his anger, Roger could never be angry at Freddie. Carefully, he untangled himself from his grip and stepped back. “Just— just drop it! Stop talking about it! Don’t even look at it! Leave me _alone!_ ” 

He was met with pallid silence and unimpressed looks from the peanut gallery. It was broken with a sigh by Brian, who waved him back towards the couch. 

“Very well, have it your way.” 

Roger’s way would have involved _not_ falling in the shower mid coitus, nor would it have involved the entire band knowing that he managed to trip onto his face, nor would it also have the _lovely_ benefit of John being a colossal fuckwit and caring more about his stomach than Roger’s health and safety. However, he’d settle for silence and being left alone while he perched on the couch. 

“Are you alright, Roger?” Phoebe asked him quietly once the rest of them— save for John who was _still looking at him_ — were distracted. 

“Peachy keen. Peachy _fucking_ keen.”

*

John’s pitying and pathetic looks continued for the next hour, ending only when Roger let his guard down long enough to grab a cup of coffee from the break room. He’d thought that John was distracted going over lyrics with Brian and Freddie, but had been proven wrong when he closed the door to the refrigerator, revealing John on the other side. 

“Jesus _fuck_ , Deaks!” he yelped, nearly taking himself out over a chair and fumbling for the carton of milk. “What the hell?”

Ignoring the fact that he almost killed Roger for the second time in as many days, John rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you alright?” 

What the actual fuck, Roger thought before saying as much.

“It’s just,” John looked down for a moment before giving him an uncomfortable amount of sad eyes, “You left really quickly, and I tried calling you but your phone was disconnected—” 

Typical John, putting the blame on him and not the fact that he chose to get a carton of ice cream while Roger was dead on his bathroom floor. Well, almost dead.

“I don’t know why you care,” Roger spat, turning away from him and focusing on keeping his hands from shaking while he poured milk into his coffee. 

“What? Roger—” 

“I mean,” Roger continued without caring that he was interrupting. “It’s not like we’re together, or anything. What happens to me isn’t your responsibility.” 

_That_ seemed to shut John up, literally— Roger heard his teeth click. For a brief moment, Roger wished he could take back his words; he had always had a tendency to go through the jugular rather than talk things out, but in this case, well. It wasn’t just his pride that was bruised. He stared down at his reflection in his coffee, knuckles blanching against the mug as he willed John to leave, or, if he were really honest, to say something. Anything, that would make this awkward silence end. 

He immediately regretted it once he opened his mouth.

“I don’t even know _why_ you’re so upset,” John said finally, a twinge of bitterness in his voice. “It was just an accident—” 

Somehow, and Roger wasn’t exactly sure how it had happened, his mug— coffee and all— ended up in the sink with a clatter. 

“Fuck you,” Roger snarled. “And fuck this.” 

Making sure to slam his shoulder against John’s, Roger stormed out of the kitchenette, absolutely seething. 

“Hey! Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” John chased after him, grabbing at his arm and forcing him to turn around. “Why are you being such a little bitch about this?” 

“Oh? Oh?” Roger sputtered as he slapped his hand off him. “ _I’m_ being the bitch about this?” 

John threw his hands in the air, “Yes! I don’t understand what even happened, you’re the one that left—” 

Freddie would definitely bail him out of jail for murder. Sure, he’d give him a huge lecture about how bassists were a dime a dozen nowadays and that just because someone is a colossal twat that definitely deserved it they shouldn’t resort to murder. But Roger would probably only face like, one night in jail. _Maybe_ two, if Freddie was feeling particularly petty. That’s what best friends were for. 

“Don’t fucking speak to me,” Roger all but growled as he got in John’s face. He might have had an inch and a half on him, but those inches were nothing when Roger was full of rage and homicidal mania. “Don’t even look at me. As far as I’m concerned, you can fuck right off to hell and leave me the fuck alone.” 

With that, he shoved John away, ignoring his shocked look, and stormed back into the studio. 

“Roger, dearest, can I—”

Roger grunted, cutting Freddie off at the pass. “I’m going to get an ice pack.” 

Leaving the whole of them behind, Roger stalked out of the studio, through the main corridor, past the receptionist. Marching through the car park, he found his car, threw himself in the driver’s seat and peeled out onto the street, speeding all the way home. 

Once home, he stripped out of his clothes, climbed back into his pajamas, and settled under the covers. Fuck all of them, he thought. Fuck Freddie and Brian and especially double-fuck John right up the arse with a shampoo bottle. 

The phone rang— Roger reached for it without looking. 

“ _Roger, what the hell, I thought you were just getting an ice pack?_ ” 

“I didn’t say _where_ I was getting it, now did I?” he mocked meanly before slamming the receiver down without letting Brian say another word. Rolling over, he closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh before grabbing a pillow, pressed down on his face, and screamed himself hoarse. 

*

He spent the rest of the day like that, laid up in bed and staring up at the ceiling as though he’d find the answer to his problem written in the beams. While he knew that the majority of his anger was really just an extension of his humiliation, there was something else below it. He was hurt, and not just physically. 

He knew that he and John weren’t in love, knew that they weren’t dating, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t hurt that John didn’t care about him. Yes, if John were to love him back that would be a wonderful thing, something that Roger had spent far too many nights dreaming about. And yes, he did know that for John he was just a casual fling and someone to get off with, but he thought that before all that he and John were friends. And friends don’t leave friends naked and terrified on the bottom of their shower when it was their fault for knocking them over. 

Even if he hated John, he wouldn’t have done that. 

Roger grimaced; okay, he would definitely leave Prenter on the shower floor. But even the thought of doing the naked tango in the shower with Prenter made his stomach roll. He’d have at least thrown him a towel before leaving. Maybe even turn off the shower if he was feeling extra generous. 

Not like John, Roger thought bitterly. No, John had to leave him on the floor of the shower, water running; balls out; ass, face, _and_ wrist hurt. He didn’t even stop to check to see if he was alive. He could have _died_. 

The more he thought about it, the angrier he felt, until it was burning up inside him. 

How could he have done that? How could he have been so cruel? First he used Roger just for his body, and then he abandoned him. Didn’t he care? Didn’t have one semblance of compassion for someone who wasn’t just his fuck buddy but his friend? 

“Freddie never would have done that,” Roger said to himself, rolling over to clutch at a pillow. “Freddie would have made sure I was alright.” 

In complete honesty, Freddie would have called an ambulance and probably the hospital, but that was just who Freddie was as a person. Freddie also would have helped him up, given him a towel made of cashmere and a designer ice pack. He’d have made the whole thing better. 

Roger sat upright in bed. 

“I need to talk to Freddie,” he declared to the quiet of his room. Freddie would know what to do. 

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was past midnight; Freddie would already be asleep, the old man that he was. He could wait until morning. Afterall, he might be a bastard but he wasn’t cruel. Roger, at least, knew how to behave in polite society. 

Rolling back under the covers, he settled in to try and sleep. In the morning, he’d see Freddie and all would be well. Freddie always made things better. 

*

Back when Freddie first bought Garden Lodge, he made a big show of handing Roger a spare key, pressing it into his hand with the sworn promise to only use it in case of emergency. 

Roger could think of no other case for an emergency than this. 

Letting himself into the house, he carefully kicked his shoes off by the front door, gently nudging Jerry away from them with the side of his foot. In the early hours of the morning, the house was still and quiet, the only other sound being the soft hum of the fridge and _pitter patter_ of soft cat feet on the hardwood. 

In the kitchen, he set about making a pot of coffee, dumping the grounds in and adding the water, once again having to push one of the cats away. 

“No,” he whispered, completely undermining his authority by pressing a kiss to the top of their head. 

When the coffee machine was on and bubbling, he headed up the stairs into the main bedroom, avoiding the creaky step. Around his feet twisted Tiffany and Lily, the two of them doing their very best to trip him up. Joke was on them; at this point he’d relish the sweet kiss of death if it ended his humiliating suffering. Maybe if he was extra lucky, they could pin his death on Prenter, kill two birds with one metaphorical stone. 

He hesitated, just right outside of the bedroom door, just long enough for Lily to meow loudly, clawing at his pant leg with her paw. 

“Shh,” he hissed, looking down at her terribly sweet little face. “You’re going to wake them!” 

“Mrrrrw,” said Lily, this time even louder. God save him from adorable cats. 

“You have to be quiet,” he whispered as he bent over to scoop her up, wincing as she immediately dug her claws into the meat of his shoulder. It was hard to be angry at her when she purred so sweetly, rubbing her head under his chin, tempting him to give her the scritches she deserved. 

Tiptoeing, he turned the handle on the door, stepping into Freddie and Jim’s bedroom. 

It was dark; the only light came from the analog clock on Jim’s side of the bed and a small crack in the curtain, spilling a stretch of sunlight enough for him to make out two lumps under the covers. Someone— probably Jim— was snoring. 

“Freddie,” Roger hissed, stepping closer to the lump he assumed was Freddie. “Fred, wake up.” 

The snoring continued. 

“ _Freddie_ ,” Roger repeated, growing impatient. “Wake _up_.” 

There was a snuffle, a sort of snort, and then— 

“Who’s there?” Jim gasped, sitting bolt upright in bed, fists raised as though ready to fight whomever was trespassing. Which, Roger had to admit, was vaguely insulting. He wasn’t _trespassing_ , he had a _key_. 

“It’s Roger,” said Roger. 

“ _Roger?_ ” 

“Yes,” Roger rolled his eyes, hiking Lily up on his shoulder. “We’ve established that. Freddie?” 

Jim squinted into the darkness, staring at him for a solid minute before he sighed, defeated. Reaching over, he prodded Freddie— who was actually the one snoring, huh, that was new—awake.

“Wake up,” Jim hissed. “Your boyfriend’s here.” 

“Huh?” Freddie blinked blearily, staring up at them in befuddled confusion. “Whuh?” 

“Fred,” said Roger, fully aware of how pathetic he sounded. “I’m sad.” 

“Roger?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What are you doing here?” Freddie asked as if Roger hadn’t just gone over it. “It’s— Rog, it’s seven in the morning!” 

“I’m sad,” Roger repeated. “I need your advice.” 

“It’s too early for this.” Jim stared up at the ceiling, his voice terribly even and defeated. 

“ _Freddie_ ,” Roger whined. “Fred.” 

He watched, fascinated, as Freddie rolled over in bed, staring up at Jim, the two of them having some sort of intricate conversation using just their eyes and mustaches. Jim, evidently, was not happy at the turn of events, but sighed in defeat. 

“M’gonna go make coffee,” he sighed, inching his way to the edge of the bed, careful to keep the bedsheets over his lap. 

Roger shook his head. “No need, I already made it.” 

That made Jim pause, squinting at him as though he couldn’t understand what he was hearing. 

“You already made it.” 

Roger rolled his eyes, cocking one hip to the side. “I’m not a _heathen_ , Jim. Yes, I made coffee.” 

Roger was polite enough to ignore whatever nasty comment Jim hissed under his breath, focusing instead on Freddie, who had thrown his hands over his face. 

“How long have you been in our house?!” 

“That’s not the point! The point is I’m sad, I need you, and you’re leaving me hanging!” 

At that Freddie flopped back over to Jim, reaching out to pat him on the arm. “Sorry, darling, but—” 

“I get it,” Jim grunted, raising Freddie’s hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss. The intimacy was enough to turn Roger’s stomach, jealousy settling ice and sour in his chest. Roger wanted that, wanted John to do the same for him. 

“Do you mind?” Jim drawled, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Roger staring. 

“What?” 

Jim gestured at his naked chest and the bedsheets covering his lower half, no doubt hiding any sort of indecency that lay beneath. Once more rolling his eyes— honestly, it was nothing Roger hadn’t seen before— he turned around, idly petting Lily as he listened to Jim rustle around for some sort of covering. 

“Give me her,” Jim demanded as he walked by, freshly dressed in a pair of boxers and a thick plaid dressing gown. 

“But—” 

“Give him the cat, Roger,” Freddie called from the bed. Disgruntled, Roger carefully untangled Lily from his arms and handed her over to Jim, frowning as she, too, looked for scritches under her chin. 

“Traitor,” he muttered, glaring at her as Jim walked away. 

“Roger, you’ve got about ten more minutes of me being sympathetic,” Freddie announced. “Best get hopping to it, or I’ll kick you back out on the street where you belong, you utter beast.” 

Knowing when to accept a gift, he crawled onto the bed, wiggling his way under the covers and up close to Freddie, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head on his naked chest. 

“I’m naked,” Freddie warned, accepting the hug for what it was and gently carding his hands through Roger’s hair. 

“When did you become such a _prude_.” 

The tug at his hair served as enough of a warning for him to be nice. 

Roger had forgotten how much he’d missed Freddie since they moved out. Not that semi-naked cuddles over midlife crisis and breakups were common in the Taylor-Mercury residence, but the level of closeness and brotherhood they’d had had slowly transformed into something else. No less special, but not quite as intimate. Roger missed being able to turn to Freddie the moment he needed him; deep down, he knew that he’d have never gotten into this mess with John had Freddie known what was going on. 

“Alright, blondie, you going to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, or am I just supposed to guess?” Freddie murmured from above, ceasing his fingers in his hair. 

Like a cat, Roger frowned, shaking his head until Freddie continued his petting. “S’nothing.” 

Freddie’s chuckle echoed in Roger’s ear, jostling his head. “Clearly it’s not nothing if it has you breaking into my home at seven in the morning in need of a cuddle.” 

It does if he has no one else to cuddle. 

Roger bit his tongue. 

“C’mon,” Freddie coaxed. “Tell me.” When Roger still didn’t speak, Freddie sighed, making to roll over. 

“Noooo,” Roger whined, holding on tighter. “Don’t! I still have seven more minutes!” 

“Ugh,” Freddie grunted as he was tugged back into position. “I hope you’re getting what you need out of this because I most certainly am not.” 

“I’m _sad_ ,” Roger groused. “Can’t you be sympathetic for seven more fuckin’ minutes?” 

“No, I can’t,” sniffed Freddie primly. “You interrupted what could be some excellent morning sex if given the chance and chased my boyfried out of bed. You’ve lost my sympathy.” 

Despite the teasing tone, it hit Roger dead center in the chest. He hadn’t even thought of that, that Freddie and Jim would be busy being in love, that Roger was intruding in their relationship. He cocked everything up; he introduced Veronica to Dominique, he nearly brained himself in John’s shower and broke up with him to save himself the embarrassment, and he invaded Freddie’s home on his one day off. And, by ruining Freddie’s day off, he ruined Jim’s. 

He pulled away, rolling back towards the edge of the bed. 

“M’sorry,” he apologized, trying his best to keep his shit together as he stumbled, half blind from what were certainly not tears, towards the bedroom door. “Sorry, I’ll just—” 

“Where do you think you’re going? Listen here, you little brat, you don’t get to break into my home and wake me up, only to leave! You get back here, I still have five minutes!” Freddie shrieked, tossing back the covers, all modesty gone as he leapt to his feet, hands akimbo on his hips. “Get your flat ass back into bed!” 

“No,” Roger rolled his eyes in his best display of aloofness. “It’s fine, I’m going to go home—” 

Freddie grabbed him by his good arm, tugging him back towards the bed. “Get in here and cuddle me, goddamnit, it’s cold.” 

Roger snickered despite himself, cutting a glance down at Freddie’s dick. “I can tell.” 

Freddie gasped in indignation, swatting at his chest, playfully furious despite the gentle way he pushed him back into bed, arranging them back into a cuddle. “Don’t be fucking rude when we’re cuddling, Roger.” 

He hummed noncommittally, letting Freddie once more resume petting at his hair. 

“I fell in the shower,” he admitted after a moment’s breath. “That’s how I fucked up my face.” 

Freddie, bless him, didn’t react. Unlike before. “That must have been scary.” 

Roger winced. He hadn’t been scared, per say. Just humiliated. Though, in hindsight, had he been alone, he probably would have been scared. The thought of being found naked and dead, everything on display, wasn’t exactly a pleasant image. 

“S’more embarrassing,” he shrugged. 

“Accidents happen to everyone,” Freddie said kindly. “You don’t have to be embarrassed over an accident.” 

Roger hummed again, closing his eyes and enjoying Freddie’s presence. 

“Is that what’s making you sad? That you fell in the shower?” Freddie probed.

“No.” 

“Then what, darling?” 

Roger sighed, scooting down to pull the covers over his head, hiding from Freddie like a child would the monster under the bed. This, the confession that he and John had been _something_ , and now they weren’t, was scarier than any sort of monster Roger could think of. 

“John and I broke up,” he mumbled into Freddie’s pec, voice muffled by the ridiculously thick duvet that he’d made Phoebe buy for him.

“I didn’t hear that. What?” 

“I said,” Roger huffed, pulling the blanket just enough for his eyes to peek out. “That I broke up with John.” 

The look of sheer indignation and shock on Freddie’s face was enough to send him scurrying back under the duvet, pinching the blanket down despite Freddie’s attempts to rip it off him. 

“You _broke up with John?_ How long have you even been dating?” Freddie shrieked, doing his best to yank him out from under the blanket. “Roger, what the _fuck_! What— why didn’t you— _Roger!_ ” 

“It’s not that big of a deal!” Roger yelped, doing his best to protect his head from any random blows, wincing when Freddie clocked him right on his hurt wrist. “Ow, Fred, lay off, I’m already hurt!” 

“You idiot! You—I cannot believe that you would—” 

Despite his best attempts, Freddie managed to wrangle the blanket off his head, glaring down at him. 

“I’m already injured, don’t hurt me any further!” Roger protested, swatting at the hands that were tugging at his hair. 

“Oh, I’m going to! How dare you keep this from me?” Freddie snarled, glaring. 

Roger flopped over, burying his face in the pillow. “I knew you’d be weird about it.” 

“Weird— you— I— I’m going to kill you!” 

The next time one of his hands came too close to his mouth, Roger gave into his inner three year old child and snapped at his fingers, actually catching his index finger, giving it a not-so-gentle bite. 

“ROGER!” 

Freddie promptly grabbed Roger around the waist, twisting, and rolled him right over the edge of the bed, sprawling him out on the floor. Roger, dazed, stared up at the ceiling in shock, before his anger kicked in. 

“I told you!” he snapped. “I’m _injured!_ ” 

“You’re the worst, and I hate you!” Freddie barked, leaning over the edge of the bed, which was his fatal flaw. Surging up, Roger wrapped his arms around his neck and yanked him down, ignoring the sharp cry of surprise and the knee that came dangerously close to his crotch. 

Together, they wrestled on the floor, shrieking various insults at each other as they both tried to pin each other down. At one point, Freddie’d managed to straddle Roger and was spitting a loogie down on his face like the absolute lunatic that he was. 

“You’re disgusting!” Roger shrieked, doing his best to avoid the long dribble of spit. In a fit of desperation, Roger bucked his hips at the same time that he twisted, managing to get one hand free enough to viciously twist Freddie’s nipple, sending him howling. 

In retaliation for the loogie, Roger took advantage of Freddie’s pain to pin him on his front, sitting on his back and digging his face into the carpet. Freddie promptly dug his nails into the soft flesh of Roger’s calf, forcing a cramp that brought tears to his eyes. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Roger swore, hiccoughing around the pain as he scrambled back and away, frantically stretching out his foot to alleviate the charlie horse. “Ow, no, fuck, _shit_.” 

“Darling,” Freddie immediately cooed, rushing to his side and grabbing at his thigh, avoiding the panicked kick from Roger. “I’m sorry—”

“What did you do that for?” Roger wailed, trying to massage the pain out. “Jesus _Christ_ , Fred!” 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Freddie soothed while grabbing at his ankle and stretching his leg out. “There, all better, no?” 

“You’re a dick,” Roger hiccoughed, dropping onto his back and covering his face with the crook of his elbow. “That _hurt_.” 

“I’m sorry, you’re right, that was dirty pool.” 

Roger didn’t even have the heart to admit that he couldn’t stay mad at Freddie, not when he apologized for hurting him. Unlike John, who just _left him_. 

“I could have died,” Roger said pathetically. 

Freddie scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic, a calf cramp isn’t going to kill you.” 

Roger flipped him off from behind his arms. “Not _now_ , you dolt. Then. In the shower.” 

“Oh. Well, you didn’t, darling, so there’s no use reflecting on something that didn’t happen.” 

Roger kept silent, laying perfectly still. He knew if he was quiet enough, Freddie would continue being nice to him. He was right. 

“I would be very sad if you were to die in the shower,” Freddie added, stroking at his leg tenderly. “Very, very sad.” 

“Thank you.” 

“But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to smother you,” he continued, almost pleasant despite the pillow that was pressed down quite suddenly on his face. Roger had to admit, he didn’t even see the sudden murder attempt coming, and was almost impressed by its sublty. 

_Almost_. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Jim demanded. 

Roger, who was currently being smothered by a naked Freddie, stopped from his attempt to kick him off, falling prone to the floor. Freddie, too, froze, the pillow no longer pushed down on his face.

“Nothing,” the two of them said in unison. Granted, Roger could barely be heard from under the pillow, but the point still stood. 

“You two are making one hell of a racket for it to be nothing!” Jim continued. Roger couldn’t see him, but he could imagine the look of sheer disappointment on his face. Freddie, ashamed, let go of the pillow, allowing Roger to blink heavily up at Jim. 

He was right; Jim looked like a proper dad scolding his sons, arms akimbo on his hips and frown evident beneath his mustache. 

“Roger apparently has been dating John in secret, only they broke up,” Freddie announced, promptly tossing Roger under the bus. 

“Freddie tried to spit on me and he broke my leg,” Roger added, pointing in Freddie’s direction as though there was another Freddie in the room. “Also, he just tried to kill me.” 

“Roger broke into our house!” 

“I didn’t break in!” Roger shrieked, grabbing the pillow from where it had fallen next to his head and walloping Freddie round the head with it, sitting up as he did so. “I have a _key!_ ” 

“Christ, Roger, what the hell happened to your eye?” Jim gasped. Both of them stopped, staring at each other in confusion. 

“What happened to my eye?” Roger yelped, panicked at the thought that he was going to lose _another_ eye and pawing at his face. 

“Freddie, you gave him a shiner!” Jim continued, scandalized. 

Roger froze, staring at Freddie. In all of their roughhousing, Freddie had been surprisingly gentle around his face so as to not properly injure him further. Roger didn’t remember him getting close to his face, minus the whole ‘smothering him with a pillow’ debacle. 

“What?” Freddie furrowed his brow before understanding dawned on his face. “Oh, no, darling, he did that to himself. He fell in the shower three days ago.” 

Jim visibly relaxed. 

“Technically,” said Roger, figuring if he was in for a penny he’d be in for a pound. “John did this to me.” 

Both Freddie and Jim went eerily still, turning in unison to stare at Roger, varying looks of fury and horror on their faces. 

“ _John_ did that to you?” Jim asked, voice almost pleasant despite the look of fury on his face. “John. Our John Deacon?” 

“He, uh, he didn’t mean to?” Roger added in a tiny voice. “It was an accident.” 

“An accident,” Jim repeated, voice still weirdly pleasant. “And how, pray tell, was it an accident?” 

“You told me you fell in the shower!” 

“Well, fell is such a complicated term, with so many different ways to interpret—” 

“I’ll kill him,” said Jim decisively. “I’m going to kill him.” 

“How could you let him do that to you?” Freddie continued, borderline hysterical. “Darling!” 

“It wasn’t like it was on _purpose_ ,” Roger argued. “He just— we just— there was so much soap and he— and I...It was very, erm, wet,” he finished weakly. 

Jim’s frown deepened. He opened his mouth as though to say something, thought better of it, and closed it. “I’m not drunk enough for this.” 

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Roger clapped his hands together, staggering to his feet. “Jim, any chance you know how to make egg in a hole?” 

*

Jim did not, in fact, know how to make egg in a hole, nor did he care to learn how. Nor would he allow Roger to make his own, citing the Sunday Roast Disaster of ‘79 as his supporting evidence behind banning Roger from all forms of cooking. 

Roger wasn’t going to complain, especially once he realized that not being allowed to cook meant getting cooked for. Mulling over the strange turn of events over a full fry up, Roger couldn’t really complain. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Jim frowned, jabbing a fork full of potato hash in Roger’s direction. “John just left you there? On the bathroom floor?” 

“Yes,” said Roger around a mouthful of toast. “In the shower, no less.” 

“And you just...left?” 

Slurping the coffee mug of mimosa that Freddie had insisted on, Roger nodded. “Tail between m’legs, mate.” 

“Because he wasn’t there?” 

“Nope, he was not.” 

Freddie cleared his throat, pouring more champagne into his own mug. “Because he was getting ice cream.” 

“Yes.” 

“Huh,” said Jim, chewing thoughtfully. “Did he say _why_ he wanted ice cream?” 

“I’m assuming because he was hungry?” Roger scratched at his chin, not really wanting to dwell on it. “The point isn’t the ice cream, it’s that I was left buck naked and almost dead on the shower floor.” 

“No, no, I get that,” Jim acuised. “It’s just...the ice cream. I’m stumped.” 

Roger took another bite of breakfast. “You and me both, mate. I mean, who wakes up in the morning and wants ice cream?” 

“Evidently John.” 

“Exactly!” Roger gestured with his fork. “John apparently wants his sex and his ice cream and doesn’t care who gets hurt in the process.” 

Freddie cleared his throat, eyebrows raised over his mug. “He’s not the only one. You didn’t even mention that you were interested in men, let alone John.” 

Roger at least had the decency to blush as he avoided Freddie’s gaze. “It wasn’t that I was interested in men, it’s more that I’m interested in _John_. And I dunno, Fred, it wasn’t really something I could just bring up. Like hey, thanks for having me for tea and Scrabble by the way John and I hooked up last night and now I’m having a crisis over it.” 

Both Freddie and Jim exchanged looks. “That’s exactly the sort of thing you can always say to me,” Freddie finally sighed before reaching for the champagne bottle to refill their mugs. “In fact, I believe I said something quite similar to _you_ , once upon a time.” 

“No,” Roger offered his mug for more champagne as well. “You just got drunk and crawled into bed with me dribbling tears and snot while crying about how much you loved that tosser that worked at Tesco.” 

“Ah, lovely Daniel. He was quite the sight on sore eyes,” Freddie beamed as he reminisced. “I used to ask him to get the beans from the top shelf just to see his muscles flex.” Next to him, Jim cleared his throat pointedly. “But! The thought still stands. You should have said something! I would have been understanding.” 

The problem, Roger thought to himself, wasn’t that he was afraid that Freddie wouldn’t understand. The problem was that if he told Freddie, it would become real. It would be something other than the romp in the hay John thought it was and be something more substantial. And he didn’t know what he would do if Freddie mentioned it to John and John had to let Roger down horribly. 

He couldn’t think of anything worse than Freddie knowing that Roger was hung up on John while John only wanted a good fuck now and again. It was bad enough that Roger had to tell Freddie what had happened _now_ that he was injured. Honestly, he was still considering quitting the band and moving to the States to escape all of it. 

“It was more that it didn’t matter,” Roger finally insisted. “It didn’t matter that we were fucking because it was nothing more than two friends scratching an itch. I mean, look at Dom and Ronnie! It was only natural that we, too, would start...bumping uglies.” 

Jim pulled a face as he mouthed ‘bumping uglies’. 

“Horse shit!” Freddie slammed his hand down on the table, shaking the dishes. “You, Roger Taylor, are a big fat liar!” 

Aghast, Roger looked down at his stomach before back at Freddie. “I beg your fucking pardon?” 

“Then beg! Listen to me, Taylor, you wouldn’t have broken into my house—” 

“I have a key!” 

“ — at seven in the bloody morning if you didn’t feel something more than just sex with John! How _dare_ you sit there at my breakfast nook eating my husband’s fry up—” 

“ _Husband_?” 

“ — and pretend like none of this mattered!” 

“Whoa, whoa, you two got married?” Roger diverted the attention from himself in order to stare at Jim and Freddie incredulously. “Without me? What the actual fuck, Fred!” 

Freddie had the decency to look ashamed. “Well, erm, not in so many words. More like we’ve just decided to call each other husband. We don’t have rings or anything.” 

Jim took Freddie’s hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Yet.” 

“Gag me,” Roger said. It came off entirely too fond and maybe even a tad wet for either Jim or Freddie to take offense.

“Don’t try and change the topic,” Freddie warned, though his eyes were also a little damp. “You hid the fact that you were dating John—” 

“But I wasn’t!” At both their incredulous look, he repeated himself. “I’m serious, it was nothing more than sex!” 

Freddie, god damn him, merely raised an eyebrow. 

When he’d decided to come to Garden Lodge, he never once pictured himself being cornered across the breakfast nook and interrogated about his not-relationship with John. Although, to be fair to Freddie, he didn’t really know what he’d expected. Definitely champagne. Maybe egg in the hole, although he figured it would be fifty-fifty whether or not Jim would make it or instead reheat a quiche. There was _definitely_ more naked wrestling than he’d assumed. 

He hadn’t prepared for this. 

Tilting his head back, he stared at the ceiling and willed for the chandelier to crush him to death. He would literally have rather had died than have to admit to Freddie what he had kept so secret since the beginning. It fluttered in his chest, bursting at the seams, and he was just so fucking tired of holding onto it. He was tired of keeping it to himself, and knowing that he was never going to be able to move on until he told someone. 

And so he did. 

“It wasn’t anything more than sex for John,” he admitted to the ceiling. “But it was for me.” 

Jim, bless him, ignored his sniffles in favor of pouring more champagne into his mug. Freddie kept terribly silent, the weight of it stifling. 

“I think,” Freddie finally sighed carefully. “That you and John have a lot you both need to talk about.” 

Roger garbled out around his mug of mimosa-hold-the-orange-juice, “I would literally rather die.” 

“Maybe you should take another shower,” Freddie smirked, tongue in cheek. “Seems like it almost did the job last time.” 

They were, eventually, able to rescue half a bottle of champagne, a handful of strawberries, and Jim’s plate. The rest, like Freddie and Roger, ended up on the floor in a heap. 

*

After he and Freddie— though Freddie was more support than help— cleaned the resulting mess, Roger was sent packing so that they could catch up on their lost sleep. Not to say that he went home empty handed; Freddie gave him another bottle of champagne from the pantry and a bacon butty that Jim was kind enough to make for him. The quick drive back to his house passed between the seven quick bites of his butty, and before he knew it he was pulling into his driveway, preparing to crawl back into bed for another few hours. 

Fate, it seemed, had other plans for him. 

“Jesus, Mary, and all the fucking saints,” he swore under his breath as he stared down the unrelenting glare of his ex-girlfriend. He considered throwing the car into reverse and driving away.

“Don’t bother trying to leave,” Dominique called without getting up from her perch on his front step. “I’ve already seen you.” 

He parked the car and exited to face his firing squad. 

“Dom, always a pleasure,” he lied. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Dom— quite the opposite, in fact. If it weren’t for his newfound joy at the discovery of his prostate and Dom’s inherent love for Veronica, they’d probably be married with two kids by now. He loved her like his best friend and older sister all put together, and therefore he had developed a very healthy and very rational fear of her when she looked at him like _that_. 

“ _Ma puce_ ,” she offered her cheek for him to kiss. Before he had the chance to pull back, she grabbed him by the chin, tipping his sunglasses off his face and atop his head. “You look like shit.” 

“This is why I love you,” he grunted from between squeezed cheeks. “You’re always so nice to me.” 

She clucked her tongue. “Well? Aren’t you going to let me in?” 

Released from her grip, he fumbled for his keys, eventually getting his shit together enough to open the door. Eternally graceful, she waltzed through his front door, her jacket hanging up on the coat rack like she’d never left. 

“To what do I owe this honor?” Roger shuffled her towards the kitchen and put the kettle on. “Not that I don’t love to see you, but I know you wouldn’t come if you didn’t have some reason to attack.” 

She ignored him as she perched on one of the barstools she’d helped pick out. “Tell me you still have that lovely green tea that we had in Japan.” 

He would never admit it, but he’d made sure to bring back six tins, three of which she’d gotten in the split, the other three still tucked away in the back of his cabinet. Wordlessly, he fetched one of the tins and what he knew was her favorite mug. 

“Thank you,” she grinned, smile painted red with lipstick. He could feel the weight of her eyes on his back as he went about making her tea, slicing a lemon and pouring the water. 

“Spill,” he commanded as he plopped the mug before her. “And you’re in luck, Freddie already got me tipsy.” 

“I know,” she hummed. “He called and told me.” 

Roger thought that Freddie had taken a ridiculously long time in the bathroom, the fucking traitor. He said as much. 

“Always so dramatic,” she chided. “Here I am, coming to talk—” 

“Don’t bullshit me, Dom. C’mon, lay it on me.” 

She sipped her tea, pursing her lips as she sized him up. Whatever she saw, it clearly wasn’t good enough. “Can’t I come by just to see how you’re doing?” 

“Lying never was your strong suit.” 

At that, she smiled, “You know me too well.” She traced her finger across the top of the counter. “Freddie told me he’s worried about you.” 

“Freddie worries about everyone.” 

“Freddie worries mostly about you and you know it.” She fixed him with another searing gaze, her hands wrapped around the mug to steal some warmth. “How did you get hurt?” 

Personally, Roger was beginning to believe that he had actually died in the shower and had fallen down to hell where his punishment was to relieve the humiliation over and over again. 

“I fell,” he grunted through gritted teeth, refusing to look at her. At her silence, he sighed before continuing, “In the shower.” 

“With John,” Dominique added with a little nod. 

“For fuck’s sake, Dom, if Freddie already told you why are you making me repeat it?” Roger exploded, his anger taking over the overwhelming humiliation. “Do you enjoy torturing me?” 

“Freddie didn’t tell me,” she shrugged carefully. “John did.” 

“J— _what_?” Roger was gobsmacked. “John— you— how?” 

Dom, ever coy, prolonged his torture with an extra long sip of tea. “John is currently throwing himself a pity party in my living room. I _had_ had plans with Ronnie— we had tickets for that one film, with Christopher Reeve? — but because you and John had a, shall we say, falling out, those plans were now ruined. And I’m here so you can fix it.” 

Roger had long since dropped his head to the counter. He was going to sit there until he decomposed and died, right there on the floor. He was going to die and it would be a welcomed death because anything would be better than knowing that Ronnie was currently consoling his Not-Boyfriend while _his_ ex-girlfriend was ripping him to shreds. What the fuck even was his life.

“I’m sure that’s a huge sacrifice for you, considering your obscenely huge crush on Christopher Reeve,” he said to the counter. Dom lovingly reached over and flicked his ear.

“Don’t be rude, _ma puce_ , I’m doing you a favor. I’m here to tell you that John is very sorry for what happened and he wants to make it right. So let him.” 

He lifted his head up in order to glare at her. “I should let him make it right? He left me there! On the ground! I could have died!” 

“But you didn’t. Honestly, all of this is so dramatic, I’d have expected this from Freddie, not you,” she chided, her words softened by the gentle pass of her fingers through his hair. “I’m not saying you have to accept his apology— though you really should. Just listen to him, hear him out, and decide what to do later. Alright?” 

“I hate when you make sense,” groaned Roger as he closed his eyes. 

“No you don’t,” she laughed.

“No, I don’t.” 

*

Dom stayed long enough to finish her tea and extract a promise from him that he would speak to John. If it were anyone else, Roger would have lied through his teeth and broken the promise once they were out of sight, but Dom was different. For one, she was absolutely terrifying when she wanted to be, and secondly she was still one of his best friends. She’d rarely led him astray before, and he knew that she wouldn’t push for him to forgive John unless he truly deserved it. 

Why he couldn’t have a normal relationship with his ex-girlfriend wherein they weren’t incestually entwined, he didn’t know. 

However, while he loved Dom and was inherently afraid of her wrath should he back out on the deal, he had never promised that he would go to John right away. Afterall, John was probably still laying on Ronnie’s couch eating ice cream, the bastard. It was bad enough seeing Freddie and Dom, he didn’t quite fancy the idea of throwing Ronnie into the mix. 

So he planted his ass on the couch and forced himself to watch three episodes of _Countdown_ repeats. And, if he happened to get sucked in for far longer than the initial episode he’d planned to watch, well, no one would be wiser. He only threw in the proverbial towel when the telly started playing reruns for some drama he had no interest in.

Procrastinating just a bit longer, Roger puttied around the kitchen making himself something vaguely edible. It was only once he was doing the washing up did he realize how pathetic he was being. All he had to do was have a bit of a chat, but even that appeared to be too much for him to handle. 

Somewhere, probably in a movie theater tucked away with her girlfriend and Christopher Reeve, Dom was laughing at him.

“Fuck off,” he muttered under his breath as he ran his hands through his hair. Knowing his luck, it was probably standing up completely on edge. Honestly, fuck everything. He knew that the only relief he’d be receiving would be if he just got it over and done with; nothing would be settled until they spoke. 

Although, part of him wanted only to hear John out long enough to keep his promise to Dom before leaving. Afterall it wasn’t like they were going to get back together— not that they were together to begin with. 

And that was the crux of the problem for Roger. They never really were together, and he really didn't have any right to be as upset as he was over the whole deal. The only thing he really could be upset about was falling, not that John apparently didn’t care. Because as far as Roger knew, John _didn’t_ care. He just considered them to be fuck buddies. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Roger had no right to hold John to standards that he didn’t know existed. 

Now he was beginning to sound like Dom. With a final and fatalic sigh, Roger pulled himself together, fetched his keys and his jacket, and made for the door. He had a date with the world’s most uncomfortable conversation ever, and he didn’t quite fancy being late for it. 

*

Back when John had bought his house, the selling point that it was close enough to everyone else in the band. Roger had liked that; it was easy for him to head over there for the night, and just as easy for him to sneak back out before the sun rose. Plus, it was convenient when it came to performances and appearances— the driver barely had to go out of his way when picking them up. Now, however, Roger was cursing that they even lived in the same city let alone the same borough. 

Too soon, he was at John’s house. Parked in the driveway, he took his time getting his things together before exiting the car. Totally in vain, however. John wasn’t home.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Roger swore. In a fit of childish rage, he kicked at a stone in the driveway, sending it skittering across the ground and into John’s bushes. He was probably still getting pampered over at Dom and Ronnie's afterall. Nevermind that Roger was the one injured. All he’d gotten was a helluva lot of mockery and humiliation. John was probably getting face masks and mimosas and, and, and— 

Roger crumpled onto the front stoop in a heap. Tilting his face up to the sky, he cursed God under his breath for making his life so difficult. 

He was so distracted by his own misfortune he didn’t notice the car pulling into the driveway until John had already exited. 

“Roger,” Jon called, the tone of his voice different. There was something there, something Roger struggled to place. “What are you doing here?” 

“Waiting for you,” Roger admitted, though he kept his voice curt and impartial. “And here you are.” 

John crossed his arms over his chest, holding himself tight. “I, erm, I went by your place. You weren’t there.” 

Roger raised an eyebrow and gestured at the air, “Evidently not. I’ve been here. Waiting.” 

“For me?” 

God and all the saints save him from idiots. “No, John, I was waiting for Brian. Have you seen him?” 

“Don’t be an ass,” John spat. He immediately seemed to regret it; “I mean—” 

“No, no, tell me again about how I shouldn’t be an ass,” Roger got to his feet, stumbling towards John. “Tell me, how should I be? Should I be grateful that you deemed me worthy enough of a visit?” 

“What?” 

“Or should I be thankful that instead of a black eye and a sprained wrist, I didn’t fracture my skull as well?” 

“What the fuck are you going on about?” John snapped back, any and all pity he might have once felt vanishing. “You’re the one who stormed out and the one who’s been ignoring me ever since?” 

“Me? I stormed out? You’re the one that _left_ me on the floor!” Roger all but roared. “You just left me there, on the floor, with lube still up my ass and hurt!” 

John threw his hands in the air. “I know! And then I went to get you ice—”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You went and got yourself a pint of ice cream! What, wanted to eat some ice cream while you _laughed_ at me for being such a klutz? Real romantic, John, honestly, paragon of generosity!” 

“What the fuck, Roger, you’re actually mental,” John laughed sarcastically. “What are you even going on about?” 

Roger stepped close enough to jab the fingers of his good hand into John’s chest. “You got ice cream. _Ice cream!_ ” 

“Because you didn't refill the ice tray!” John shouted. 

Roger froze. As did John. 

For a moment they stood practically chest to chest, heaving with the effort of their argument, before the fight seemed to leave both of them in one fell swoop. 

“What?” Roger said, stepping back.

John ran a hand through his hair, turning to look away. “You’d made all those bloody gin and tonics and didn’t refill the ice tray. There was none left over, the only cold thing I had was a tub of rum raisin. By the time I grabbed it and went to go back, you were already dressed and leaving. And then—” 

“And then I wouldn’t answer the phone,” Roger finished for him. Christ, what a mess. 

“I tried explaining,” John rushed to inform him. “But your phone was busy—” 

“Unhooked,” Roger supplied unhelpfully. 

“Unhooked,” John corrected. “So then I figured we’d talk in person and I could explain but you were so angry and you didn’t want to speak, and then I thought well, best to give you some space and—” 

“Here we are.”

John nodded. “Yes, here we are.” 

The two of them fell silent, refusing to look at each other. Roger opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it, closing it with a click of his teeth. There wasn’t really anything left to say. 

Roger was hurt, yes, but now he knew at least it wasn’t purposeful. He was definitely going to have to call Freddie and Jim to explain, though. And maybe Dom. Or he could just quit and leave in the middle of the night, save himself the trouble. Honestly, that seemed like the safest and best choice. 

John, however, apparently wasn’t done talking. “Why were you so upset?” 

Let it be said that Roger never claimed to be a chill person. He bristled at the accusation of dramatics; “I beg your pardon? I’d fallen in the fucking shower, mate, and was left nearly to die!” 

John let out what could only be described as an undignified, “You didn’t nearly _die_ , Roger, oh my god. You’ve been spending too much time with Freddie.” 

Left sputtering, Roger fantasized for a moment of leading John up to the lovely lovely shower and shoving him over to bang his head on the tile. “I could have lost an eye!” he practically screeched, whipping the sunglasses off his face and pointing at said bruise emphatically. “Look at me, I’m disfigured!” 

In a power move that Roger was frankly jealous that he hadn’t thought of before him, John stepped forward to cradle Roger’s face lovingly in his hands, his thumbs stroking just south of the bruise. 

“It is rather ugly,” John murmured. Roger fought himself not to flutter his eyelashes. Goddamn him, but it was smooth as shit. “Does it hurt?” 

“A _lot_ ,” Roger nodded. For fuck’s sake, he was practically breathless, leaning into John’s tough like an anchor in a storm. One touch and his ire had melted away. The only thing burning was his desire, god help him. 

“I’m sure,” John all but cooed. “It looks just terrible.” 

For one brief, shining moment, Roger considered asking John to kiss it better. The moment vanished when John tilted his head further up, lashes lowered and gaze focused on Roger’s lips. 

“I know what will make you feel better,” he whispered. Roger almost whimpered. 

“Please don’t say rum raisin ice cream.” 

Chuckling, John swiped his thumb again under Roger’s eye. “No,” he leaned in impossibly closer. “I can think of something even more fun. Maybe revisiting the shower…?” 

The moment broke in an instant, Roger stumbling back away from him, pushing John in the act. 

“No,” he said, firm. He repeated himself again, even firmer, before, “I can’t keep doing this.” 

He almost wished he’d had a picture, John was the picture of shock. “Oh, um, okay—” 

“It’s not fair,” Roger found himself babbling. “I cant keep— we can’t keep hooking up, okay, because now there are feelings—” 

“Oh—” 

“ — and honestly, what were we thinking, getting involved? Especially with Dom and Ronnie, it’s like you’re my brother-in-law, or something—” 

“ — I never wanted you to feel uncomfortable—” 

“ — I mean, have we fucked each other? Through Dom and Ronnie? Is that how it works? Or have I fucked Ronnie through association because I’ve fucked Dom— and she’s fucked me, let’s be real, you might be good with your hips but Dom really showed me the prostate way— and you’ve fucked Ronnie, so have we just been inscestually fucking each other?” 

“ — I know that my feelings might be making you uncom— hang on, you think we’re inscestuous because we’ve both had sex with Dom and ronnie?” 

Roger pulled back, “What, you don’t?” 

It looked rather like someone had waved dog shit under John’s nose, “No! No, I don’t, although… _No!_ No, Roger, what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“I don’t know, I just thought of it!” Roger threw his hands in the air. “Anyways, we shouldn’t!” 

Pinching the bridge of his lovely nose, John looked seconds away from blowing a gasket. “Roger, it’s not fucking incest if we have sex just because our girlfriends are now dating.” 

“No, not just because of that—” 

“Just?!” 

“But because of the feelings!” Roger bellowed. “Christ, John, don’t you get it? There's feelings involved now!” 

Later, Roger would slap himself over how he didn’t notice right away. However in the moment, Roger was more focused on himself and mentally kicking himself over having vomited his feelings all over John without warning. Meanwhile, John turned absolutely sheet white as he stumbled back and away from Roger. 

“I didn’t...What feelings?” John tried to divert the conversation but Roger had already come this far. He wasn’t going to back away now, not when he could end it right here and now and go home to nurse whatever tidbit was left of his dignity. 

“I think we both know what I’m talking about,” Roger said stiffly. “To no fault of our own, feelings have developed...for one of us. And we have to end it. To save them—” _Me_. “ — From future heartbreak.” 

Honestly, John looked sick, Roger seriously considered bringing him inside to lay down. “You’re...this is all much of an overreaction, don’t you think? Honestly, how bad could it be?” 

“Really bad,” Roger murmured, refusing to look John in the eye. “Honestly, John, it’s really embarrassing, alright? So let’s just never speak of it again.” 

He might have expected some sympathy, but he never expected the shove. Roger stumbled back, struggling to regain his equilibrium as he teetered in place, arms wheeling about in a futile attempt to keep his arse off the ground. 

“Fuck you, Roger!” John spat. “Oh, so now it’s embarrassing?” 

Roger would accept that no one ever wanted to hear that it was embarrassing that someone had gone and falling arse over tits for them, but he never expected violence from the confession. 

“Yes!” Roger shouted back, attempting to shove John back. “It’s very embarrassing, alright? And I would like to never mention it—” 

“You’re such a fucking wanker!” John yelled. Roger had never seen him look so irate; there was a furrow in his brow and his face was turning an alarming shade of red. “I cannot believe you— you think I’m embarrassing?” 

Now Roger was lost for words. “I mean, I would say the situation is more embarrassing, but yes, unrequited feelings are rather humiliating—” 

“ _Unrequited?!_ ” 

Clearly John had never learned how to turn someone down gracefully. The fact that he was kicking off over this, well, Roger might just have dodged a bullet. “Deacy—” 

But John wasn’t having it. “I think you’d better go, Roger. Because I’m about to do something that I really regret if you keep speaking—” 

“Oh! Oh!” Roger pulled himself up to full height. “You some sort of gay basher? You going to beat me up, tough guy? All because I’ve developed feelings for you?” 

It was almost comical, the way that John twitched, double taking and turning to squint at Roger, almost incredulous. “Wait, what?” 

“You heard me!” Roger shoved him back again, then again, until John was pressed flush against his car, Roger pinning him there. “I cannot believe you’re being so awful over this! Guess what, John, it _is_ gay to have your cock up someone else’s arse, and just because I’ve made the colossal mistake of thinking that maybe there could be something more there—” 

“What!” 

“I am not repeating myself!” Roger bellowed, articulating each word with a jab of his finger into John’s chest. “In fact, as far as I’m concerned, I never want to see you or your stupid face or your horrible shower or—” 

Whatever possession of John Roger was going to list off was cut short by John’s lips pressed to his. Normally, the effect of a kiss from John Deacon would have Roger feeling a tad weak in the knees, but he was made of stronger stuff. Which is why he pulled back and punched John, throwing his whole weight behind it. 

“Fuck!” John yelped, immediately reaching up to clutch at his bruised eye. Roger, meanwhile, was clutching at his potentially broken hand. 

“Fuck!” Roger screeched. “My hand!” 

“Your hand! My eye!” 

Roger let out a whine, waving his hand about, “Christ, you have no idea how much this hurts!” 

“I think I have a pretty solid idea considering you just _punched me in the eye!_ ” 

“Don’t play victim, John, honestly, it’s so tacky,” Roger hissed through his teeth, still staring down at his hand. “You deserved it, I didn’t deserve this!” 

“I kissed you— you’re the one that punched me out of nowhere!” 

“No,” Roger growled, hand still throbbing and pride smarting. “I confessed my feelings for you and you mocked me by kissing me!” 

John threw his hands in the air— because both of _his_ hands were uninjured— and bellowed, “I have feelings for you, too! Though right now the only feeling I have is anger!” 

Roger felt like the floor had been dropped out from beneath his feet. “You...you have feelings? For me?” he said, voice small. 

John rolled his eyes, though he did look rather fond. “I don’t know why, considering you just sucker punched me. Which, what the fuck, Rog?” 

“I dunno,” Roger scuffed his foot on the floor, feeling rather ashamed. “I just...I thought you were making fun of me. For liking you.” 

John reached out and took Roger’s hand in his, his touch gentle considering that both his hands were practically broken, thanks to him. “I thought you were making fun of me.” 

“I wasn’t, I was—” 

“I know _now_ ,” John interrupted, rather rudely if Roger was pressed. “I just...I thought you didn’t want anything serious. That’s what you’d said, when we started. That this was just a bit of letting off steam. And I should have said no, because I’ve liked you since Ronnie dumped me, honest, but you never showed any interest—” 

“John,” Roger placed his finger against his lips, effectively cutting him off. “I’ve always had feelings for you, you absolute twat. But you never seemed like—”

“You didn’t either!” 

“Stop interrupting me!” Roger half laughed half scolded. John shut up, miming zipping his lips. Honestly, he was _such_ a dork. “I wanted to have sex with you, and that morning, you looked so scared, I wanted to give you an out. Just in case.” 

“I was more freaked out by the thought that I was finally having sex with someone I’d been fantasizing about for ages,” John confessed. “And then _you_ told _me_ that you just wanted to be friends with benefits, and then I dropped you in the shower— which I swear I’ll never do again! And I thought you were done with me.” 

“We’re both idiots,” Roger finally sighed with a shake of his head. “Honestly, we’re so dumb.” 

“So stupid,” John agreed. “We’re practically made for each other, don’t you think?” 

Roger nodded. “I think you should make it up to me.” 

John, as stupid as he was, seemed to catch on. Stepping in close, he slot one leg in between Roger’s, letting him raise up a bit to grind gently against his thigh. “I think I should, too. What do you have in mind?” 

“No shower sex,” Roger gasped. His hands were gripping onto John’s shirt with all his strength; the last thing he wanted was to fall again. “Maybe the bed?” 

“Brilliant,” John nodded frantically, pulling Roger in closer for one last press of their groins before stepping back. Together they all but ran into the house, chasing each other up the stairs to the bedroom, collapsing on top of each other. 

Ten minutes later, as John was all but sucking the life out Roger via his cock, all he could think was how much he loved the horrible, stupid man and equally how much he loved his shower. 

*

The next morning, they showed up bright and early to the studio hand in hand, matching grins and mirrored black eyes. And frankly, neither of them would have it any other way. 

*

(Three days later Phoebe showed up on John’s doorstep, two bath mats in hand. 

“I got one for each of you. From Freddie,” he said, jovial. John’s was a lovely shade of blue that matched the tile of his shower. Roger’s had rubber duckies.) 

**Author's Note:**

> if you've reached the end, please know that they're still so dumb it physically hurts them. like, so dumb. just so, so, so, dumb. pray for them and their stupidity 
> 
> (seriously tho, happy birthday lo i adore you)


End file.
